


Out of the Woods

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Rain, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:12:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ kinkmeme at sherlockbbc_fic. John catches cold whilst he and Sherlock go chasing clues in the rain, going on to prove that doctors make the worst patients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The rain had begun to fall at precisely 3:26 pm. It had not been the sort of rain that fell in intermittent drops, announcing its presence softly and giving one time to seek shelter. It had been the sort that began suddenly - rain that was heard before it was felt, crashing from the sky with a sickening cascade. It was a split second after that sound that John felt large, cold, wet droplets saturating his hair and stinging his cheeks.

It was now precisely 4:37 pm and it was still raining.

"I said you should have brought a jacket," Sherlock said, huddled behind the upturned collar of his long coat as they waited at the gates of Coldfall Woods for the cab that John had called precisely seventeen minutes ago.

"Yes. Yes, you did," John admitted, attempting without success to prevent the surging rain from dribbling uncomfortably down the back of his neck. "You told me that in that taxi, just after we'd passed Hampstead Heath. What you said in the flat, before we left, was, 'come on, John, there's not a moment to lose'."

"I didn't mean that you couldn't stop to find a coat."

"Oh well, thanks. I'll remember that next time." The wet wool of John's jumper was clinging uncomfortably to his skin, and he was pretty sure that his left shoe was leaking. In any case, the bottoms of his jeans had absorbed enough water to be entirely saturated, and were now haemorrhaging water into his socks. In John's opinion, there was no sensation more miserable than having soaking wet feet. "I can't believe we spent an hour searching a crime scene – searching a whole bloody wood - for footprints that weren't there."

"They would have been there before it started to rain. We were just too slow," Sherlock snapped. John nodded begrudgingly, hugging his arms tightly around his torso in a vain attempt to conserve heat. Sherlock brushed dripping wet curls back from his forehead and continued. "Nevermind, we'll just have to try a different tactic. Come at the problem from a different angle. I'll get Lestrade to look up - are you shivering?"

"No." It was a pretty bad lie, John thought, his teeth chattering audibly.

"It's good if you are. We only have to start worrying about hypothermia if you stop shivering." But he looks a little worried, John thought. His eyes kept darting up and down John, just like they did whenever Sherlock first met someone, when he was trying to fathom them out. John felt a swoop in his chest that made him feel simultaneously unbearably happy and utterly sick. It wasn't just that the sheer energy that emanated from Sherlock's eyes made him unspeakably handsome, but that said energy was focused entirely on unremarkable John Watson.

Married to the job, remember John? Married to the job.

"Thanks, I did know that. Being a doctor and all." It was a stupid, not even remotely amusing response, and John knew it. Sherlock was still starting at him, but now it was an awkward gaze as if there was some kind of action that he ought to be taking to rectify the situation. Suddenly, he gave his arm a strange sort of jolt, as though he had been about to extend it, but then decided against it. Instead of whatever he had been about to do, Sherlock began to unravel the scarf that was tied at his throat.

"Do you want to borrow this?" John raised a hand in protest.

"No, keep it. It's my own fault for not wearing a coat. The cab will be here soon anyway." Damp as it was with the rain, John couldn't deny that the scarf had been tempting. He wasn't just cold and wet now, but properly chilled. The same feeling he'd had when, as a first year student, he'd got drunk and then woken up at five in the morning on a park bench; a chill that takes hold of your muscles and makes them ache. A chill that infects you with the damp of the wettest November since records began. God, he was cold.

Sherlock stared hard at John, and then slowly retied his scarf.

"I'm sorry that I dragged you out in the rain," he said slowly.

The cab took another thirteen minutes to arrive.


	2. Chapter 2

The back of the taxi was warmer. Or rather, John knew that logically it must be warmer, because the driver had the heating on and they were out of the rain. But he didn't actually feel warmer, and he was still shivering. If his entirely inappropriate clothing and involuntary muscular movements weren't embarrassing enough, his nose had started to run. He was pretty sure that his sniffling was annoying the taxi driver, who had already taken the liberty of adding a couple of quid to his meter after seeing the state of his sodden passengers. And he was certain that he was infuriating Sherlock, whose rapid tapping at the keyboard of his mobile phone was only interrupted by furtive glances at John. It wasn't actually the kind of attention that John desired from the world's only consulting detective.

John felt tired too; certainly far more tired than he should have been after a couple of hours walking in the woods at a far from strenuous pace. A week ago, he'd been sprinting round the London trying to catch a suspect; he'd been out of breath at the end of the chase, but far from exhausted. Right now, he felt like climbing the flight of stairs up to the flat would be a challenge. Trying to surreptitiously wipe his nose on the sleeve of his jumper, John attempted to convince himself that his tiredness was the result of the extra effort involved in keeping warm.

"We're here." The driver had pulled over and Sherlock, who had climbed out of the cab without John noticing, was now leaning in through the open door. "I've paid the driver. You are getting out? You do live here."

"Yeah. Sure. Sorry – distracted…" John strung together a jumbled list of words that refused to form a coherent response to Sherlock. Stumbling out of the taxi, any modicum of warmth obtained on the ride home was obliterated by the still falling rain. As quickly as he could, which seemed to be far from quickly enough, he dragged himself up the stairs to 221b, following, as always, in Sherlock's swift footsteps.

John had never been happier that they had scraped together the money for last month's gas bill. The flat might be messy, and there might be seven different strains of bacteria growing on body parts in their fridge, but it was warm. Very warm. So warm that John didn't want to do anything but throw himself into an armchair and fall asleep. He got the first part of his wish and had just closed his eyes as Sherlock gave him a light kick to the left shin.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes. If you're wet and chilled, you run an increased risk of catching a cold." John reluctantly opened one eye.

"You don't catch a cold by being cold, Sherlock. I know you're a little out of touch on primary school science, but honestly? You see there are these things called viruses and they're so small that we can't see them and - "

"Please don't tell me that was how you used to explain infectious diseases to your patients." Sherlock winced, as if the ridiculous nature of John's description caused him physical pain. "I am, as my experiments suggest, aware of basic concepts in pathology. I didn't say it would give you a cold, I said you were more likely to catch one. The latest research on the subject suggests that being cold can dramatically reduce your ability to fight off infection."

"Sorry, I must have skipped over that article in The Lancet while I was fixing bullet wounds in the boiling hot Afghan desert."

"Besides, you're getting the cushions wet. At least take your shoes off. Mrs Hudson said that if we stained the rugs again they'd be consequences."

"That's because you burnt holes in one of them with hydrochloric acid," John muttered. But, dutifully, he undid his shoes and kicked them under the coffee table, revealing dripping wet socks. Thinking that he might avoid an argument by doing so, he removed those too. His feet felt like ice. Sherlock still didn't look impressed. John closed his eyes again, mostly to avoid the visual criticism.

"Take off your jumper." John fought back a wry smile that was threatening to reveal itself on his features; if only the circumstance around that statement were different. Any yet… Perhaps it was his tiredness was deceiving him, John thought, but Sherlock's usually bluntness seemed absent from his demand, or at least greatly diminished. It wasn't so much of a command as a request. Still, John wasn't in the mood to fulfil it.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. I just want to take a nap. Just…" A half-stifled yawn. "Just twenty minutes."

As was often the case, Sherlock didn't listen to him. Seconds later, John felt his sopping wet jumper being dragged unceremoniously over his head, and then each of his arms in turn. He'd imagined being undressed by Sherlock Holmes more times that he cared to recount, but not quite in these circumstances. The offending garment was then thrown to the floor, landing with a squelching sound. John shuddered as the drops of moisture on his forearms began to evaporate in the warm air of the flat. A cool hand, smoothing down his damp hair that had been ruffled by the jumper, caused him to open his eyes with a start. He couldn't remember Sherlock having deliberately touched him before.

"Please don't make me take off your trousers too," Sherlock said, rather too solemnly for such a ridiculous statement. He was perched on the arm of the chair. John smiled but didn't move. "Go and change into some dry clothes." Another pause in which neither of them stirred. "I'll make a cup of tea." Now John laughed out loud.

"You never make tea!"

"I do. At four in the morning, when you and Mrs Hudson are in bed." John found himself being pulled out of the chair and onto his feet like a ragdoll. His limbs felt floppy and heavy, and to be dragged about by a pair of strong hands wasn't entirely uncomfortable. "Come on, John, I'm bored of this."

"Fine, fine. I'll go and change. Milk-no-sugar please."

The cup of tea was waiting for him when he returned to the arm chair. He curled up in the chair, tucking his feet – now clothed in odd socks taken straight from the radiator for maximum warmth – underneath himself, and cradling the mug in both hands. Sherlock had retreated to his usual thinking position, flat on his back on the sofa, rubbing at the two nicotine patches that adorned his left arm. John took a sip of the scalding hot liquid and sighed.

"So, where do we go from here?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"I'll go and see Molly to take a proper look at the body tomorrow. Then see if Anderson got any decent shots of the crime scene, which I doubt he did. I can't believe Lestrade didn't set someone following those footprints straight away."

"Do you think…" John smothered another yawn into the sleeve of his cable-knit jumper. "Do you think they'd have told us much?"

"No idea. Maybe everything. But probably nothing at all. Why would a man wandering through the woods at eleven o'clock at night?"

"He didn't have a better offer," John put his tea cup down. It wouldn't hurt to close his eyes again. Just to rest them. Just for a few minutes.

"Be serious, John. I am trying to solve a murder here. Why wouldn't you go into the woods alone at night?" Sherlock looked over to the armchair. "John?"

There was no reply, except for a muffled snore.


	3. Chapter 3

The room was dark now. John had woken with a start from a dream in which he, dressed in full combat gear, was being chased through a vaguely familiar forest by a shadowy figure. In the dream, John had tripped over an exposed root, and at the very moment he would have hit the ground, he felt a jolt run through his body and he opened his eyes. After a split second of sickening disorientation, he recognised that he was in the armchair, in 221b – and that someone had turned all the lights off except the desklamp. The only other light source was the wan glow of Sherlock's laptop screen as he stared at what looked, to John's half-asleep eyes, like police reports.

John tried to stretch. The gnawing pain in his limbs articulated his punishment for falling asleep in the chair; his whole body seemed to be filled with a dull ache that turned into a silent groan when he moved. He yawned, and then shuddered, realising, with some trepidation, that he still felt chilled. It must be the effects of age. It was all very well being fit enough to sprint around London, but he was also the wrong side of thirty; a life of fighting crime was going to catch up with his body sooner or later. Age, however, couldn't adequately explain the scratchy feeling that had crept into the back of his throat – a feeling that transformed itself into a sharp soreness when he tried to swallow.

"How long was I asleep?" John asked, flinching at how rough his voice sounded.

"About three hours; it's almost nine o'clock." Sherlock did not look up from whatever he was reading. John tried to clear his throat as he drew himself into a more upright position.

"Any progress on the case?" Sherlock shook his head and closed the laptop.

"Lestrade sent me Anderson's forensic reports, but they're worse than useless. The man's a bigger imbecile than I thought he was. I'll have to go and look at the body myself in the morning." Sherlock stood up and, for the second time that evening, dragged John to his feet. "Come on – case is done with for this evening. I can get something to eat."

Standing upright, John didn't feel particularly hungry. In fact, he felt slightly dizzy and his head ached behind his eyes. It was a throbbing kind of ache that made him want to close his eyes again to shut it out. Sherlock must have noticed something wasn't right, because he held on to John for longer than necessary, wrapping his slender fingers around John's wrists before he left them go.

"Try not to forget your coat this time; it's still raining," Sherlock said softly, as he picked up his scarf. The thought of the rain made John shiver again.

"Look, do you mind if we get a takeaway instead?" In his head, John's voice sounded worse every time he spoke. He tried again to clear his throat, but succeeded only in producing a harsh cough. "I think I've had enough of the rain for one day." Sherlock avoided John's eyes as dropped his scarf back onto the sofa.

"Of course. Order whatever you like. I'll put the kettle on."

"Two cups of tea in one day; what have I done to deserve this?" John asked, as he reached for the menu of The Bengal Tiger, which lay by the telephone.

"Don't get used to it," Sherlock warned. "Besides, you never know when I might be asking for something in return."   
Having pushed a lump of chicken that was coated in some garish orange sauce around his plate for twenty minutes, John considered that this was the first meal the two men had shared at which he'd eaten less than Sherlock. Usually, his flatmate only managed a few mouthfuls of a dish before something distracted him, or he became bored of sitting in one place. But tonight it was John who was struggling to eat anything at all. It wasn't that the food didn't taste good; all right, it wasn't gourmet fine dining, but after years on army rations anything tasted good. He just didn't seem to have the stomach for anything more than a cup of tea.

"Is it all right?" Sherlock asked. Exhibiting a degree of patience of which John was previously unaware, Sherlock's knife and fork had been placed on the side of his plate for a least ten minutes and he was still seated at the table.

"Mmmm… yeah, it's fine," John mumbled, poking the chicken some more. "I'm just not very hungry." The spices from the curry were making his nose run, and he snuffled softly into the sleeve of his jumper. His head was still throbbing, and the tea didn't seem to be doing much to soothe his throat. More worrying still were the icy shivers that sporadically crept over his spine.

Sherlock watched him in silence for a few moments longer, and then muttered, "John, you're an idiot."

"I was aware that you'd reached that conclusion some time ago."

"No, I mean, going out in the rain without a coat. You've obviously made yourself ill."

"Come off it, I'm not ill…"

"You're feverish," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"How could you know that?"

"I took the liberty of taking your pulse when I helped you up from the chair," he replied smartly. "Not that I needed to; it's twenty degrees in here and you're still shivering. Besides, you sound terrible and you look worse." John pushed his plate sharply away from himself. Tact had never been Sherlock's strong point.

"Thanks," he snapped. "But I'm not ill. I'm just tired from running around after your stupid cases all day." For an instant, Sherlock looked slightly hurt, and John felt more than slightly bad. Especially as he was almost certain that he was lying, and he might even have admitted as much had Sherlock's unflappable expression not immediately returned.

"I'm sorry we didn't find anything, but it really was your own fault that you got so wet."

"Yes," John interrupted briskly. "Yes, it was. Entirely my fault. I apologize." He stood up. The sudden change of position made him feel dizzy again and he gripped the side of the table-top firmly with both hand and exhaled deliberately. "Right. I think I'm going to bed now. I'll wash up in the morning. Good night." Without another word, he walked off towards the bedroom upstairs.

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps stalk off to the second bedroom, his annoyance clearly audible in every step. Before they reached the bedroom door, however, the footsteps ceased and a violent sneeze echoed through the flat. Sherlock rubbed unconsciously at the nicotine patches on his arm as the bedroom door slammed shut.


	4. Chapter 4

The first day they'd met, John had told Sherlock he was a very good doctor, and that wasn't a lie. He was a very good doctor when he came to having steady nerves and steady hands, and when it came to making the right decision quickly enough. He just wasn't a very good doctor when it came to his own health. Perhaps it was that old adage about doctors making the worst patients. Or perhaps it was the fact that once you've seen the effects of a roadside bomb on the human body, anything short of bullet wounds or partially severed limbs doesn't rank as a priority. He'd been an idiot. He should have gone to the chemists last night when he was feeling better, because he'd bet a large sum of money that there was no suitable medication in the flat.

Also, it was apparently too much to expect for two grown men living together to invest in something as practical as a box of tissues, so John was forced to snatch a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom when he woke at eight the next morning feeling much worse than the night before. His head was clogged and achy, and the twelve hours sleep that he'd had seemed only to have left him more exhausted. Looking into the medicine cabinet (or rather, the cabinet, because the only medicine it contained was an expired pack of antacid tablets and an empty tube of Savlon) John vaguely remembered that he hadn't been particularly kind to Sherlock last night, and he felt his stomach twist in an uncomfortable fashion.

Nevermind. Sherlock could – and no doubt would - get his own back once he realised that he'd been right all along about John coming down with a cold. There would be gloating, and probably another lecture about how it was all John's fault for having left the house without a coat. Hoping to postpone those particular delights, John decided to go straight back to bed and hide out in his room for as long as he could. He'd wallow in his own self-pity and suppress any desires he might have for Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed and place a cool hand on his forehead – and a pair of warm lips on John's own. But John's body seemed to be falling into a nasty habit of betraying him at inopportune moments. Just as he turned the handle on his bedroom door, he found himself having to smother a set of harsh sneezes into the sleeve of his dressing gown.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock called. John swore profusely under his breath as he wiped his nose and shuffled reluctantly into the living room. Sherlock was sitting in an arm chair, feet resting on the coffee table. His phone was in his hand, fingers moving swiftly over the keypad. He looked up as John sat down on the sofa, and smiled at him. But it wasn't the smile John was expecting. Unusually for Sherlock, there wasn't any hint of gleeful pride in being right. It was the sort of smile that people give to abandoned animals, or fat Brownie Guides. Or, he remembered vividly, men with psychosomatic limps.

"Yes," John said hoarsely. "I know I look pathetic."

"You don't look pathetic," Sherlock said, placing his phone on the coffee table.

"You're a terrible liar."

"No, I'm an excellent liar, as you well know. It just so happens that this time I'm telling the truth. Miserable maybe, but not pathetic."

"I'll take your word for it. I might have to absent myself from our visit to Scotland Yard today. I'd probably only end up contaminating the evidence."

"I'm not going anyway," Sherlock said, nonchalantly. "Lestrade's been called away to assist on some people trafficking investigation, and without him Anderson and Donovan won't show me anything. So, it's a day off."

"You must be devastated."

"Naturally."

"I don't suppose you've got any painkillers, have you? Anything that'll bring my temperature down – paracetamol? Ibruprofen?" John asked, pinching the spot between his eyes. The sinus headache that he'd woken up with was rapidly intensifying. Suddenly, there was a hand underneath his chin, tilting his head upwards, and another, wonderfully cool hand on his forehead. "You don't have to… I mean, I know I'm running a…"

"I've got some aspirin; will that do?" Sherlock's hand was still lingering on his forehead as John nodded his assent. "I use it to stop blood coagulating," Sherlock added, in response to John's look of surprise.

"Thank you," John whispered, as Sherlock removed his hand, gently stroking John's hair back from his forehead as he did so.

As he was presumably searching in his bedroom for the pills, Sherlock's phone vibrated on the table and the screen lit up. John peered over at it. He hadn't meant to read the message that had just been received, but Sherlock's phone was set to flash the text up instantly on the screen. It was from Lestrade.

_If you need a day off, that's fine. I'll keep you updated. _

So much for Lestrade being called away to another case, John thought. Sherlock was indeed an excellent liar. Until, that is, he was caught out. Hearing footsteps returning, John pushed the phone away from himself and leaned back on the sofa.

"Here you are." Sherlock held out two white pills and a glass of water, which John took gratefully. The he snatched up his mobile, brows furrowing as he read the message from Lestrade. "Hmm. It seems that Lestrade may be absent tomorrow as well. The waiting will be intolerable."

"Really," John murmured, sipping at the glass of water and wondering what on earth Sherlock was up to. Other people might take holidays, but Sherlock Holmes did not. He was usually the one pestering Lestrade to investigate some quirky mystery that he'd noticed on the website of _The Sun_; Sherlock maintained that the tabloids were the only papers that reported anything of real note. But now he was asking for a day off, and seemingly without plans to do anything except sit opposite John and watch him intently. Sniffling, John thought that he might have been able to fathom his flatmate's puzzling behaviour if it wasn't for his stupid cold making it impossible to think straight. He shivered again.

"You're cold." It wasn't a question and so John didn't bother to respond. Sherlock sprang out of the chair, as if eager for any kind of activity, however mundane. John wondered how long Sherlock had been awake and sitting in the armchair. He usually found that kind of waiting unbearable. Because – of course, John Watson, you absolute idiot – that's what he had been doing. Sitting in that chair and waiting - waiting for you to get up. It was then that he texted Lestrade to say that he wanted the day off – that was what he was doing with his phone when you walked in. He texted Lestrade once he knew for certain that you'd caught this cold – although he must have thought it was pretty certain last night. He wanted to take the day off because he knew that you were ill.

For the first time, John knew what Sherlock must feel like all the time. He'd worked out why Sherlock was acting so strangely. He'd solved the mystery. Or, at least part of it.


	5. Chapter 5

"That's not my duvet," John pointed out, as Sherlock draped it over his shoulders and seated himself next to John on the sofa.

"I know; it's mine. I noticed that yours was getting a bit thin, and thought this might be warmer." It was warmer than his duvet, John noticed, and fluffier too. Its cover was made of that very expensive type of cotton that felt cool and soft against the back of his neck. It was a perfectly reasonable observation that this was a nicer duvet than his own, and lending it to John was a rather thoughtful thing for Sherlock to do, but John decided to not to leave it at that.

"Did you notice when you came in last night to check on me?" It was a risk, taking a guess like that. Guessing wasn't something that Sherlock would have done. But John decided that if he was wrong he could probably pass it off as some kind of feverish dream. A very ordinary and singular dream, and certainly not one that had been recurring since he moved into Baker Street.

But he wasn't wrong. Sherlock was trying very hard not to appear embarrassed.

"I thought you were asleep," he began slowly. "It was a perfectly logical thing to do. You were ill. You didn't seem yourself. I wanted to make sure- "

"Thank you," John said firmly. "It was kind of you. This," he added, tugging on the duvet, "is kind of you. Especially as I wasn't very kind last night." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as though it didn't matter very much.

"The Scottish woman on ITV or the woman with the strange guests on Channel Five?" he asked, turning the television on. "Or there's this programme on BBC 2. People try to sell stolen goods for a profit without the police noticing. They have help from a fence who values the goods."

"Try to sell stolen… Sherlock, do you mean 'Bargain Hunt'? Because that's not what the programme is about." But Sherlock interrupted him before John could set him straight.

"What time did I come into your room last night?" he asked, narrowing his eyes as he stared at John.

"I don't know. I was feverish. I was barely awake. I didn't have my watch on," John babbled in what he hoped was a flippant manner.

"Yes, you did; I can tell by the marks on your wrist in the mornings that you always wear your watch when you sleep. Besides, you just gave three excuses when one would have done perfectly well. That means you don't remember me coming in, and that means you guessed." Sherlock wasn't looking quite so kind now. "Guessing isn't allowed."

"Come on, Sherlock, you guess all the time -"

"I never guess. And I would never have told you truth if I knew that you were guessing." He did look rather put out, and much as John thought it probably served him right for all the times he'd unnerved someone by reciting their entire life story to them, John did feel responsible.

"I appreciate it," John said, honestly. "I hope I didn't worry you," he added, with a conspicuous sniffle.

"Of course not," Sherlock said in a clipped manner, pretending to be enthralled by the antiques expert's valuation.

"Because it's just a cold. A pretty rotten cold, but nothing to be concerned about."

"Quite."

"So if you have things that you need to do, I can look after myself," he ventured.

"I explained that Lestrade is away so I can't do anything on the case. Now, will you let me concentrate?" Sherlock snapped, turning to John. "I'm trying to decide whether that salver is the same one that was stolen from the Duke of Devonshire six years ago."

"I'm just saying that I know how much you hate sitting around the -" John paused mid-sentence and raised his hand to Sherlock as if to tell him to wait for a moment. Turning away, he sneezed, and groaned, and sneezed again.

"I've changed my mind," Sherlock said. "Definitely pathetic."

"Most people just say bless you," John replied tersely. He pinched the bridge of his nose again; the aspirin hadn't kicked it yet to take the edge off the pain. "God, I feel awful." Sherlock raised one arm and placed it along the back of the sofa.

"Come here," he said in a softer tone. John's first thought was that Sherlock was going to give him a hug. He looked at his flatmate incredulously. Sherlock rolled his eyes and patted the patch of sofa that was closest to him. "Come on, John, I'm not going to hurt you. Just sit here." John shuffled over so that, if it wasn't for the thick duvet, he would have been leaning into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder.

Slowly and carefully, Sherlock nestled his long fingers into John's hair and began to move them in small circles over his scalp. John sighed. It felt wonderful. Sherlock's fingers pressed on his scalp just firmly enough to disperse the pain in his head. Simultaneously, the tension disappeared from his shoulders and he sank back against Sherlock, trying not to imagine how good those same hands might feel elsewhere on his body.

"Mmmmm… I suppose I shouldn't ask where you learnt that trick," John murmured. Sherlock laughed.

"Probably not. It would only be less exciting than you imagine. Does your head feel better?" Sherlock asked, relaxing his fingers slightly.

"Much. That was… amazing," John said with tones and looks of admiration that were usually reserved for Sherlock's deductive skills. Their eyes held each other for a second. Then, suddenly, Sherlock leaned over and placed his lips on John's forehead. John closed his eyes, and hoped this wasn't his feverish mind playing tricks on him. The kiss lingered on his skin for a few seconds, before Sherlock pulled back sharply.

"You're still a little warm," he said, and his voice was uncharacteristically unsteady. "It's more accurate to check someone's temperature that way, you know."

"I know," John replied, hearing a slight tremble in his voice as well. He paused, took a deep breath, gathered courage. "And… And I think my lips might be a little warm as well."

Sherlock didn't need telling twice. He placed his lips on John's and found them pressing desperately against his own. John's heart was racing, but he knew that it was nothing to do with his fever. Besides, when he ran his hand over Sherlock's chest he could feel the other man's heart beating equally quickly. The kiss was languid and soft. It was exactly as John had imagined it would be, except for the fact that his nose was running and he couldn't breathe particularly well. John pulled away reluctantly, sniffling madly into his sleeve.

"Sorry, that wasn't very romantic," he mumbled. Sherlock looked away with an expression that John was beginning to recognise as guilt.

"No, I'm sorry," he replied quickly. "You probably only wanted some sympathy, and I'm taking advantage of you."

"No, you're not," John said firmly. He leaned it to kiss Sherlock again, but found himself stopped by a firm hand on his chest. "What? I mean, I know I look a mess but you didn't seem to mind before."

"It's not that I mind, it's just… You're feverish. You might be delusional." John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock gave a small smile. "All right, you're not delusional. But you are ill. It wouldn't be right." John wanted to tell Sherlock that now was entirely the wrong time for him to gain a moral compass, but that wouldn't get John what he wanted right now. Clutching the duvet around his shoulder, John stood up with the decisiveness that came to him instinctively in difficult moments. He held out an unnervingly steady hand to Sherlock, and looked him squarely in the eye.

"If I'm ill," he began, slowly, "Then you should put me to bed."


	6. Chapter 6

Lying with his head on Sherlock's chest, John considered that, in some ways, sex with Sherlock was exactly as he had imagined it would be. Sherlock's body had felt taught through his shirt when John trailed his fingers over it, making light work of the buttons. That body had been wonderfully heavy on top of his own, as John pulled him in close, their legs entwined like the cables of a rope. His lips, John remembered with a surging warmth, had moved from tracing soft kisses, to pressing roughly against John's own, keen with desire.

But John had been surprised – pleasantly surprised – by the way that Sherlock pressed his upper arms hard into the pillow as their mouths caressed each other. The way that he held John's body was urgent, almost violent. John had seen Sherlock's unpredictability when he was working on a case; being suddenly dragged away without explanation when genius struck was an occupational hazard for John. But Sherlock was always in control when dealing with other people. Seeing him let himself go was startling. Perhaps his body was the one thing that Sherlock couldn't control, John had thought as he surprised himself with the speed at which he reached into Sherlock's trousers.

And John couldn't decide whether or not he was surprised at the skill with which Sherlock sucked him off. One the one hand, he though as he teased one finger around Sherlock's clavicle, he expected Sherlock to be good at everything. Conversely, he couldn't imagine the partners that Sherlock might have practised on. He probably shouldn't ask where Sherlock has learnt those tricks either. It was enough for John to take an obscene amount of pleasure in what Sherlock could do with his mouth and tongue – combinations that had made John come harder than he could ever remember.

The hormones surging through his body had combined with the aspirin to sustain him through their rather energetic encounter. With Sherlock giving him the best blow job of his life, John didn't think he would have been able to think of anything else at all, let alone the aches that were now creeping back into his muscles and head. As Sherlock stroked a hand lazily over John's hair and down to the nape of his neck, John shivered slightly. He felt an almost imperceptible check in the fluid motion of Sherlock's hand as it moved over his shoulder.

"You should put your shirt on; you'll get chilled," Sherlock said, his detached tone belied by the gentle squeeze that he gave John's shoulder.

"'M not moving," John mumbled, his voice muffled into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock titled John's head up tenderly, and kissed him.

"Don't be more of an idiot than usual, John," Sherlock murmured. He shuffled himself into a seated position, dragging John with him, and reached over the side of the bed to where the shirt had been flung with wanton abandon. Taking more care than he'd done when removing John's wet jumper last night, Sherlock helped John back into his shirt and pulled the duvet over both of them.

As they lay there in a cocoon of soft silence for some minutes, John noticed that Sherlock's left foot was beginning to twitch.

"Are you bored?" John asked, looking up at him.

"Painfully bored," Sherlock replied, then bit his lip as though he realised he had said something wrong. "That is, I've never been very good at this part."

"I don't expect you have," John said kindly. He rolled off Sherlock and wrapped the duvet around himself. "Go on. Go fire the revolver into the wall or play your violin. On second thoughts, you could knock on Mrs Hudson's door and see if she has any Lemsip. That might make my headache better instead of worse."

"That's hardly going to solve the problem of me being bored," Sherlock argued.

"Might solve the problem of me feeling ill though." John added a few sniffles for good measure. Sherlock's guilty conscience had come on pretty suddenly, and might disappear just as fast, so John thought he'd better exploit it whilst he had the chance.

"I think I preferred it when you were professing that you were quite well in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary." John began to nudge Sherlock sharply with his toes. "All right, all right. I'm going. But next time we run out of milk, you're going to get it."

"I always get it anyway. And while you're at it, ask Mrs Hudson if she has any tissues…"

Sherlock returned several minutes later, holding a mug in one hand and a variety of packets and tubes in the other. He sat down on the bed next to the John-sized lump in the covers and, placing his haul on the bedside table, began to shake the lump until it sat up slightly. Two watery eyes and a rather pink nose peered over the top of the duvet and a hand appeared from its depths to take the mug.

"Mrs Hudson not only had two varieties of hot lemon drink but enough over the counter drugs to run a black-market pharmacy," Sherlock informed John.

"Mrs Hudson is a saint," John replied, taking a sip of the scalding liquid.

"She also said that she wasn't surprised that you'd caught a cold, running around London with only a jumper on and not eating properly. I had to take three jars of multivitamins with me before she would let me leave. Then she said that I had to make sure you kept warm, or it would go to you chest, although judging by her other suggested home-remedies we might want to ignore her particularly brand of medicine. Or maybe not," Sherlock added, as John was overcome by a particularly nasty coughing fit. "Can you breathe in there?"

"Just a cold, Sherlock," John spluttered, catching his breath. "So, if there's anything you need to be doing...."

"I told you, John, I can't do anything until Lestrade tells me he's back on the case."

"Or you tell Lestrade that you don't need the day off," John said. "I know about that message you sent him. I saw his reply on your phone."

"Sometimes I think that I should teach you less about detective work." Sherlock sighed. "It wasn't much of a case anyway. They'll solve it in a week or so I expect," he continued, with a failed attempt to seem blasé about the whole thing. "They'll be on the right track once Anderson's realises that the marks on the victim's neck weren't made by nylon rope but by a pair of nylon stockings – that was obvious even from his terrible photos. Of course, he probably won't notice it, the fool." By now, Sherlock had stood up and was pacing backwards and forwards between the bed and the window. "Then they'll be floundering for days on end looking for a man, when it's much more likely to be a woman. Or a drag queen. Now that would be novel…"

"Text Lestrade," John interrupted. "I know you want to." Sherlock stopped pacing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then quickly replaced it.

"I can't. I should stay here with you. Besides, I need an assistant and my usual one has the sniffles." John rolled his eyes.

"Take the skull. That'd really piss Anderson off." Sherlock's eyes lit up a little at this suggestion. "Just go, before you catch this thing from me."

"Probably a little bit late to be worrying about that," Sherlock said, with a wry smile. "I'm certain we provided the virus with ample opportunity to transfer itself between us."

"In that case, seeing as the cold virus has an incubation period of about three days, you've got roughly 72 hours to solve the case before Lestrade sends you home sick," John told him.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said, as he grabbed his coat from a chair and headed for the door. "At least make it a challenge."

Seconds later, John heard the front door slam and rapid footsteps descending the staircase. Placing the empty mug on the bedside table, John noted that Sherlock had thoughtfully placed John's mobile phone alongside the haul of cold remedies. Although it was warm under the covers and John was reluctant to move anywhere, he wasn't sure if one morning of passion – however long it had been in coming – entitled him to co-opt Sherlock's bed to recover in. Just as he was mustering the energy to shuffle back to either the televisual delights of the sofa or the inferior bedding of his own room, his phone buzzed against the table.

_If you aren't in my bed when I return, you'll be buying the milk for a month. SH_

John smiled, closed his eyes, and stayed exactly where he was.


End file.
